Harry Potter and the Potions Master
by My blue rose
Summary: AU. Severus Snape wakes up to find himself not as dead as he thought and seven years in the past. With the chance to do things differently will he change things for better or worse? Time Travel, Snape Mentors Harry, no slash. ON HIATUS
1. Memento Mori

**Chapter One: Memento Mori (Remember Death)**

Severus Snape was quite certain he was dead. He was also quite certain that being dead was not supposed to hurt this much. He was floating in darkness, his whole body, assuming he had one, was aching. His neck felt like someone had doused it in basilisk venom. He groaned and was surprised at how loud it sounded. He had died; he knew that. Potter and Granger had been there. The Dark Lord had killed him. No, that wasn't right was it? _Nagini_ had killed him. The Dark Lord had ordered that damn great snake to kill him. The snake had impaled his neck with its fangs…

Gasping, Severus Snape sat bolt upright, grasping his neck. His black eyes darted around the room as he forced himself to breathe normally. The musty room was filled with broken furniture and a thick layer of dust lay upon the floor. Fading light was coming in through the slats of boarded-up windows. The sun was setting outside. The Shrieking Shack. Automatically he reached into his robe pocket and withdrew his wand. Blinking, he stared at it.

Odd. Surely he had had in his hand before…

He rubbed his neck. The skin was unbroken; he could not even feel a scar. What would heal him like this? Ah. Phoenix tears, of course. That would be the only thing able to heal the damage and neutralize the venom in time to save him. Who could have administered it though? Potter and Granger certainly… However, Phoenix tears were extremely rare and very expensive. He himself only had five drops worth in his private potions store and that had been a gift from Albus from Fawkes …

_Fawkes_! He must have been here, although, no one had seen or heard from him since the his head he pushed himself off the ground and started coughing. Surely there had not been this much dust before? Scowling, he spelled his robes clean. Wrenching open the trap door he descended, wand held high in front of him. _Merlin_, He hated this passageway. It never fails to remind him of the near fatal encounter with the werewolf he had had here.

He was bent almost double now, face set in a determined grimace. The sun was setting. That meant it had only been a few hours since he was killed-no, since he was temporarily indisposed. Or, a nagging thought said, it could be the day after. No one knew he was dead except Potter, Granger, and the Dark Lord. It would be just like the Dark Lord's leave him to rot in the shrieking shack. The irony was not lost on him. Of course that would mean the Dark Lord had won. He gripped his wand harder. No, it was just as likely that in the aftermath Potter and Granger had forgotten about him. He was supposed to be dead after all.

Severus straightened out. He had reached the opening of the tunnel. Looking at himself, he spelled his robe clean of dust and dirt. If he was going to die again he wanted to do it with a bit more dignity than the last time, though he would settle for at least taking someone out with him. He took a deep fortifying breath, and preparing himself for the worst, climbed out of the passage.

He was forced to duck as a branch hurtled itself toward his head. Snarling, he hit the knot that froze the Womping Willow with his foot. When he came out from under the canopy he saw that it was now dusk. Slowly he made up the deserted sward, eyes scanning the shadows his ears straining against the silence. An owl hooted in the distance and he almost jumped. The castle was intact and the grounds seemed untouched. But it was too quiet. Severus could not hear children's voices or laughter, nor the sounds of battle._It was silent as a tomb_. Severus winced at the thought. _Of all the possible similes…_

He was beginning to think that he had been unconscious for longer than he had supposed. After what seemed like a very long time, he reached the doors to the castle. The Entrance Hall was empty. Fading light streamed through the windows reflecting on floating dust motes. His boots echoed duly on the marble flagstones. His wand hand was sweating but steady.

"Practicing for your nightly patrolling, Severus?" An amused voice asked.

Severus felt the blood drain from his face. A figure had just come out of the Great Hall. Standing before him with a raised eyebrow and benign smile was Albus Dumbledore. Looking very distinctly alive. He realized his mouth was gaping. He shut it, teeth clicking together, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Are you going to hex me? If you are, could you at least tell me what I did to deserve it? Albus said mildly, looking very unconcerned.

He glanced at his wand which was still pointing straight Dumbledore. He thrust it into his robe pocket, hand still clenched tightly around it. Dumbledore gazed at him behind his half-moon spectacles, eyes calculating.

"My dear boy, I would say that you look like you've seen a ghost if I did not already know that a ghost would not affect you so. What is the matter?" His light tone had a serious undercurrent.

Severus swallowed hard. "H-Headmaster." Was this an impostor? It had to be. An eerily accurate impostor but as he distinctly remembered killing headmaster a year ago…

Dumbledore sighed. "I am certain that teaching Harry Potter will not be as onerous as you are inclined to believe, Severus. All I am asking of you is to give the boy a chance." he looked at him sharply. "Like I once gave you."

He said nothing, unable to find his voice.

"The feast will begin in an hour. Don't be late." With that, Albus Dumbledore turned around and walked away, leaving Severus Snape staring after him.


	2. Ante Bellum

**Chapter two: Ante Bellum (Before the War)**

Feeling as though the ground was giving way beneath him, Severus Snape allowed his feet to carry him along the familiar paths to the dungeons. His fists were clenched tight and sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt dazed, almost feverish. When he reached his quarters, concealed behind a large ornate mirror, he stopped, staring at his reflection.

What little skin that was not hidden by clothes appeared jaundiced and drawn. His lank, greasy hair (which he had never really cared about) hung more limply than usual. His eyes were glazed and had purple bruises beneath them.

Raising a hand to open the door, he gasped in pain. He blinked at his hands. His fingernails had gouged little bloody half circles into his palms. Automatically, he reached out and touched the mirror with a long finger. It swung inward revealing the room behind it.

The drawing room was elegant and austere, decorated in Slytherin green and black with silver accents. In the center of the room were two green leather chairs. The wall in front of him held a massive stone fireplace. The mantel was carved of greenish stone in the form of two snakes entwined, their eyes inset with obsidian pupils. Set against the opposite wall was a heavy black desk.

The right wall had two black doors with silver serpent shaped handles. The bedroom and bathroom. The entire left wall was taken up by a bookcase full of books with names like:

"Seven Deadly Untraceable Poisons and How to Make Them"

"Immortality: A Treatise on Unicorn Blood and its Usage in Potion Making"

"Nasty Curses without Coutercurses: an Illustrated Manual"

Severus' eyes however, were drawn to the clock above the mantel. It had five hands and its face consisted of four concentric circles. Each black clock hand was inscribed in silver: year, month, day, hour, and minute. And, pointing strait up, the 'year' hand rested underneath the date. The clock read Monday, September 1, 1991.

Severus prided himself on his capability to remain cool and collected in any circumstance. Or at least any circumstance that did not include a Potter and his friends. This ability had saved his life more than once. So, with a calm he did not feel, he forced himself into the armchair nearest the fireplace.

Since Severus also prided himself on his capacity for logic and reasoning, he closed his eyes and drew upon years of oclumency practice to release his emotions. When he had achieved the familiar feeling of detachment, he opened his eyes, gazing into the fire that had magical appeared upon entrance to his quarters.

There were only four options. One, He was hallucinating, which was either from a psychological breakdown or magically induced. He was tempted to dismiss the former, but could not come up with conclusive evidence outside of his observations that he was not, at this moment, truly in St. Mungo's next to Longbottom's parents and Lockhart.

As for this being magically induced, well, that was nearly as bad as being incurably insane. Any magic that could cause this would certainly be designed to prevent internal extraction. That would mean he was stuck here until someone removed the magic binding him or he died. That cheerful thought led to option two, he was dead…

And this was, possibly, a lower circle of hell. He found he did not want to contemplate this option much.

Option three, he was dreaming. If that was so, then it was an unusually vivid dream. And abnormal, as he was not normally given to lucid dreaming. At least there was the possibility of waking up. Waking up to what though. That was another thought he did not want to contemplate too much. The last option. Severus was uncertain whether this was the most preferable or the most terrible one. It was possible, improbable mind you, but possible, that he was truly in the past. He glanced at the clock again. An hour had gone by but otherwise it still told him he was seven years in the past.

Before the war. Before his relatively peaceful years as a teacher were turned on it head by the son of James Potter. Who, if the last option were true, was crossing the lake at this very moment with his classmates. How many of them survived the final battle?

Severus stood abruptly. He needed to be in the Great Hall. The feast was starting. He would go and act as if this were real. Because if any of the first three options were correct that meant that this place and time were, in essence, illusory. Any action he performed here would not matter because it was not real. Severus left his quarters and made his way to the welcoming feast because something he hated above Potter and irrationality was the idea that his actions were meaningless.

He left the dungeons just in time. The sorting was over and the Great Hall was full of children, eating, talking, laughing, and generally making more noise than was necessary. It made it easier for him to slip into a seat next to Minerva at the staff table unnoticed. Well, relatively so. Dumbledore shot him a glance with a smile and Minerva a stern glare with a frown.

Reflexively, he sneered back at her while his eyes raked the Gryffindor table for—ah! There! In his black school robes sitting next to Ronald Weasley was… Harry Potter? Severus blinked. Harry Potter was a tall, lithe seventeen year old man who was just as handsome and arrogant as his father with his windswept hair and Quidditch prowess.

But this Harry Potter…

This Harry Potter was noticeably skinnier and shorter than his age mates. His shoulders did not have that defiant set to them, his hair was more unkempt than windswept and, Severus squinted, were those glasses taped? In fact he seemed not at all like James Potter, heir of the Potter family. He almost seemed like another small, messy black haired boy, one who had been nervously wearing secondhand robes and bearing his mother schoolbooks on his first day at Hogwarts.

Severus swallowed hard. Had… Had he been wrong about Harry Potter?

But he remembered that seven years ago—no, not seven years ago, _now_!—that Potter had been an arrogant brat even from the beginning. Severus drummed his fingers on the table, thinking hard, trying to remember…

"Severus, you haven't touched a thing!"

Severus barely suppressed a flinch at Minerva's interruption. His plate was indeed empty. He had been so engrossed in thinking that he had not bothered to fill it. To his annoyance she began to fill his plate with food from the nearest dishes.

"Minerva," he said through clenched teeth. "I can, in fact, feed myself, thank you."

"Yes, I can see by the wonderful job you were doing." She responded dryly as she piled more food on his plate. Returning to her own plate she continued as if they had been having a conversation.

"I'm afraid however hard you glare, Mr. Potter is not going to burst into flame."

"I was not—"

"Oh, I suppose it is Mr. Weasley who has earned your ire before his first term has even started?"

"Of course not!"

"So you _were_glaring at Mr. Potter, then?"

"No! I was merely observing—"

"Yes, of course, how foolish of me, you were merely _observing_Mr. Potter—by glaring at him so fiercely you have forgotten to eat."

"Minerva, if I am inclined to _sternly observe_ a student who no doubt deserves—"

"To be maligned simply because he is the son of James Potter? Something he cannot help?"

Severus bit back his retort. Maybe he truly _was_in hell. Surely Minerva had never been this obdurate before? This last year she had barely said anything to him that was not strictly necessary. But then she had thought he was the Death Eater responsible for turning her school to a prison for children. He could not fault her for that.

"You should've heard what Hagrid said about those relatives of his. I knew they were a bad sort ten years ago. They hate magic you know." She shot him a sideways look.

"Mr. Potter almost reminds me of another young boy with less than understanding relatives who came here oh, how long ago was it? Twenty years ago or so?"

"Enough!"

Minerva fell silent, seeming to understand she had crossed a line. It was one thing for him to think that Potter reminded him of himself so long ago. It was quite another for Minerva the point it out in a feeble attempt to manipulate him into sympathy for the brat.

As a child he would've been angry and horrified to discover that his teachers pitied him. Glancing at Potter, Severus couldn't help but sense that the boy would feel the same way. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then stared at Potter hard, almost willing himself to see the vainglorious man with a horrible hero complex that he knew Potter to be.

Instead all he saw was an 11-year-old boy, small for his age, with messy hair and glasses chatting amicably with his new House. Impossible. It was impossible. Could he really have been wrong for all these years?

Sensing his gaze, Potter looked up at the staff table. Severus quickly schooled his features neutral. Looking distinctly uncertain Potter found his eyes; Severus gave him a curt nod. In return the boy offered him a tentative smile. Staring into Lily's long dead eyes he was hard-pressed not to return it.


	3. Ab Initio

******A/N:**** I have made some minor changes to this fic and decided to combine two chapters because they were too short on their own.**

* * *

**Chappter Three: Ab Initio (****From the Beginning)**

Severus watched his prefects lead the nine newSlytherin first years to their dormitories in the dungeons, and after a moment, followed them. He could hear Draco's drawling voice against the muttering of his age mates even from here. That reminded him of another problem. The Malfoy's. Since Lily's death he had found Lucius' friendship to be increasingly tedious and loathsome yet he had kept it up. Not purely for appearances, should his services as a spy ever be needed again, but also because he had so few friends in his life that that the thought of being less than well intentioned toward one, even one that he did not care for, was abhorrent to him.

As for Draco…

He had been both flattered and honored to be named the boys godfather but since his first year at Hogwarts he had grown increasingly frustrated with the boy. He was clever but lazy, preferring to rest upon his family name rather than invest in the work necessary to cultivate his intelligence. He was a lot like his father had been at school, arrogant with a bullying streak. But Draco lacked his father's cunning and ambition which no doubt led to the boy's more foolish stunts. He was similar to Potter in that way.

He stopped and watched the new first years as they walked down the donjons corridor and stopped before the blank wall that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin Common room. Marcus Flint herded the last child through and glancing back, caught his eye. Severus strode over to him after the wall closed. Flint stood up straighter, his large frame seeming a bit too large for his robes. Although Severus thought the boy looked oddly small until he remembered that the adult Marcus Flint was several inches taller.

"It's a shame about Potter, sir." It took Severus a moment to understand what Flint was referring to.

"You think so?" his voice had dropped and he felt his lip curling automatically.

Flint shifted his weight uneasily.

"I just thought that if we'd got him the other Houses wouldn't be able to," he trailed off and shook his head. "I suppose it's for the best. Probably a real troublemaker, that one."

"Indeed," Severus responded dryly.

"Speaking of troublemakers, I want you to keep an eye on misters Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle." He said, an idea forming in his mind.

"Sir?"

"Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle will be in need of remedial help in their school work. And I am afraid Mr. Malfoy been over indulged. He will need supervision to prevent altercations. I do not want those three reflecting poorly upon our House. Do you understand?"

Flint's eyes held a malevolent gleam as he answered "Yes, Sir. They won't be a problem, sir."

"Then I bid you goodnight, Mr. Flint."

"Goodnight, sir."

Severus departed, heading for his quarters. Once there, he sank into one of the leather armchairs and summoned a bottle of fire whiskey from the drinks cabinet by his desk. Not bothering to conjure a cup he swigged from the bottle, relishing the burning sensation in his throat. While he was not normally given to drinking copious amounts of alcohol he had just come back from the dead three hours ago. He thought he was entitled to at least mild inebriation. While he slowly drank himself into a stupor, he contemplated how much fate must hate him to have landed in such a predicament.

By the next night, Severus was willing to concede that he had died and gone to hell for his, admittedly numerous, sins.

He had been woken up in his chair, mouth dry and head splitting, by Poppy who had been sent by Albus to find out why he did not appear at breakfast. He had to endure ten minutes of her railing against his irresponsibility before she consented to give him a hangover potion. This meant he was five minutes late to his first class of the day, the third year Slytherins and Gryffindors. It was by far the worst class he had ever had to teach, including Potter and Malfoy's class. He remembered having begged Dumbledore the year before Potter arrived to allow him to switch the Houses but he had been denied then, and every year since.

The combination of the Weasley twins, and Jordan along with the Slytherin Warrington, and Montague meant that the classroom was in a constant state of near chaos as the boys tried to sabotage each other's potions, hex one another and generally insult and jeer. It wasn't only the boys who were trouble though. Lidia Flint was more likely than the twins to start something while Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet gave as good as they got.

So he was unsurprised that when arrived it was to find his class in a state of war. Kenneth Towler was on the floor, apparently unconscious. Adrian Pucey was sitting on the ground by his desk with his hand covering his nose, out of which sardines were falling. Jack Sloper and Terence Higgs were scuffling in a corner having been disarmed of their wands. Higgs' lip was bleeding and Sloper had the beginnings of a spectacular black eye.

Lee Jordan, Alicia Spinnet were crouched by Patricia Stimpson who was sobbing. The girl was missing several fingers of her left hand, which was bleeding profusely. Angelina Johnson was shouting invectives at Lidia Flint whom she was dueling. The Weasley twins were battling Warrington and Montague all of whom had cuts and burns visible.

"Enough!" he shouted with a powerful nonverbal disarming charm. Sixteen wands clattered to the ground around his feet.

Bending down he put a tourniquet charm Patricia Stimpson hand, summoned a jar of stasis solution and carefully inserted the girl's fingers into it. It would preserve them until Poppy could reattach them. He then checked on Towler, waking him with a reviving spell. After surveying the room which was now so quite you could hear the sardines still falling from Pucey's nose hitting the floor where they flopped impotently.

"Miss Spinnet, take Miss Stimpson and Mr. Pucey to the Hospital Wing. The rest of you, sit down." He said in his most intimidating voice.

From behind his desk Miles Bletchley came out from where he'd been hiding. The other two Slytherin girls crept out of the potion stores apprehensively. He glared at them while they took their seats, straightening out their robes and ties and casting each other nervously. Once he was satisfied that they were sufficiently cowed, he began in his most dangerous tone.

"Detention for all of you for a month. Gryffindors will report to Mr. Flich on Wednesday, Slytherins on Friday. I will also be contacting your parents. Since you have all demonstrated you ability to act like infants, for the remainder of this class you will write lines. Well? Get out your parchment."

There was a flurry of movement as the students rummaged in their bags for quills, ink and parchment. Severus sat down in his desk chair and resisted the urge to rub his temples. When the rustling had abated he glared at the class, noting with pleasure that even the Wesley's wouldn't hold his gaze.

"You will be writing 'I will not engage fighting like an imbecile." I expect two hundred and fifty lines by the end of this class or else you shall have it as homework tonight. Begin."

He waited until the room was filled with the scratching of quills before he withdrew his own piece of parchment and started writing a letter to the children's parents. It was something he had done often enough that he could almost do it by rote. The class end in silence and with him assigning more homework than usual. He made his way down to the Hospital Wing, which was empty Stimpson and Pucey having been cured.

Poppy was in full of indignation for him, after he explained what had happened. She had wholly agreed with his attempt to separate the third year potions class and Severus was content to listen to her tirade on his behalf. Until that is, she asked him what he was going to do about it.

"You're going to talk to Albus, of course?"

"He did not listen before when I predicted something like this would happen. Why should he now?" This was not the true reason he did not wish to talk to Dumbledore. The thought of speaking privately to the only man whom had held his allegiance, a man he had killed, was not pleasant.

"But now that students have been hurt…Severus, he must!"

He shrugged but did not answer. He taught two more classes that day, skipped both lunch and dinner and retired to his room, once again with a bottle of fire whiskey intending to be more careful and ensure he did not drink too much this time. He had only just started on the botlle with the flames in his fireplace turned emerald and an elderly man stepped though, brushing ash off his robes (which were a lurid purple) and saying,

"Severus, you have been a hard man to find. Are you trying to avoid me?"

Severus groaned. Just when his day couldn't get any worse.


End file.
